‘Mission accomplished,’ said Griff, as he pushed away his plate. ‘Down to business.’

He hailed the waiter, raising his hand like a paddle at an auction.

‘Roche, come with us. Fill me in.’

It was half past ten.

Escorted by the night manager, Griff, Arun, Roche, Bea and Dan passed the gilded doorways of conference rooms and empty chairs. Tapestry runners crossed the polished floors to doors that opened into empty lifts.

‘Let’s just go,’ said Bea.

‘No,’ said Dan. He walked ahead, to join Griff.

They arrived at a pair of painted doors. The night manager stepped aside. The tiny private room was airless and highly decorated with plaster and curlicues, like a millefeuille.

‘This’ll do,’ said Griff.

They went inside. Bea sat down on a low, silk sofa, and Dan sat next to her.

‘Roche? Let’s have it,’ said Griff.

‘Right,’ said Roche. He opened his briefcase. ‘As you already know, we have applied for what is known as “access”. When the juge d’instruction receives the police file from the section de –’

‘Boring,’ Griff raised his voice a notch. ‘Speak English. Look. All I want to know is, one: what do the police know? Two: when will we get Alex back?’

‘If you’ll take a look at this,’ said Roche, fiddling with his iPad, ‘we at Roche, Crowe, St Johnston –’

‘Jesus fucking Christ, put that away!’ shouted Griff, his impatience weaponised by grief. ‘Tomorrow it will be four days since my son’s death, and all these gendarmes are doing is harassing his family. Was it an accident? Was it suicide? What happened to him?’

Philip Roche blinked and gaped. He had two successful offices, in Paris and London. He employed fifteen people. A good proportion of his clients were grieving the recent deaths of family members, but was not used to being shouted at. Plucked from his routine at the whim of a notorious man, he’d been promised a huge fee but been paid, so far, nothing.

‘Come on, come on,’ pushed Griff, leaning into his face.

‘The French inquisitorial approach can seem personal –’

‘No. Shut up. Next. What happens now?’

Roche fumbled with his iPad. ‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know?’

Bea was dry-eyed with exhaustion. The chandelier glared behind her father’s head as he towered over Roche, who glanced at his briefcase like it contained a gun he could not reach to defend himself.

‘There was definitely a hold-up, immediately after the accident,’ he said. ‘But –’

‘What now?’

‘Realistically,’ said Roche, ‘it could be weeks before our application for access comes through.’

‘No,’ said Griff, like training a dog.

‘Until then, the SR are not obliged to tell us anything.’

‘No. What now?’

‘I honestly can’t tell you.’

‘Wrong answer!’

‘When we have insight into their thinking –’

‘I don’t give a rat’s arse about their thinking! Are they as incompetent as this in Paris?’